Cornelius ... Cornelius Gurlitt

How tired are you? How benevolent the cause for those slim, aching moments of blinding obscurity, and the blinds drawn and the sunlight louvered until even the knickknacks cling to their dust as to Time passing passing, if even that. The yearning to be not bothered, to be passed on the street, the rehab, the food mart, the many shoppe window reflections. So many times, the eyes averted in fear, so many times you remain obscure, even to your more obscured self. A silence charting your whereabouts at the many roundabouts, the Tenderloins forever unnamed. Even the sounds of the half-painted trams remain silent in passing. Their wheels grinding yet silent. The rain silent. The accusations even more silent, or the “friends” who never talk back, clouded in darkness. The landscapes drifting. The equestrian trots drifting. All the genres mixed up or simply misplaced. The memories gone blank. The mundane measured in hours, minutes, or decades, intervening, descending.